


nitrous

by agaave



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, alternate universe - street racing, heinous acts on fancy cars, im gonna be real if these cars are incorrect idc i just kinda went for what sounded ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaave/pseuds/agaave
Relationships: Sanbica/Sommar (original characters)





	1. Chapter 1

The race was over ten minutes ago, but his heart is only just now beginning to calm down, fingers still curled around the steering wheel too tight for the slow, winding drive back to the garage. 

Nothing beats out the thrill of a race. But he'd be lying if there wasn't something irreplaceable about seeing Sanbica at the finish line. 

It’s late, long past the point for most people go to sleep, the air warm and humid after last night’s rain. The farther out from the city they get, the less lights there are, only a few streetlights scattered here and there, winking like fireflies in the night.

The garage door doesn't look like much from the outside, maybe slightly worse for wear from the elements. Unassuming from the front, it’s reinforced by steel underneath, a six-digit passcode added as a layer of security for the cars inside. Sanbica slides out of his car to punch in the code, his features thrown into sharp relief from the headlights of the 350z and Supra. 

The door slides open, giving them enough room to drive the cars inside. This place is one of their lesser-used safe houses, a decent-sized property out of the city limits. It’s mostly for Sommar’s use, although Lao’s Camaro is in here too. He’s here, then, or was a while ago. Sommar flicks on the lights as Sanbica kills the engine, turning around just in time to catch the keys the other man throws in his direction. He sits, legs dangling off the hood of the car, watching imperiously as Sommar comes to stand between them. 

“Well?”

“You’re still not going to get me to drift without a handbrake,” Sanbica says, one arm winding around Sommar’s neck. “But I  _ guess  _ I can admit you have a point.”

“I think that’s the most graciously you’ve ever lost,” Sommar hums, one hand settling on Sanbica’s hip. He leans in, his attention drawn to the part of Sanbica’s mouth.

“I can be less gracious, if you’re complaining,” Sanbica says, and pulls his head back. 

“I am decidedly  _ not _ complaining,” Sommar amends hastily, and he can feel Sanbica’s satisfied smile against his lips as he kisses him. Sommar’s hands press flat on the hood behind him, still warm from the engine and the air outside. 

Kissing Sanbica is like flooring the gas pedal, zero to sixty in four seconds. It’s beyond him to resist, to do anything but meet him, kissing him until they’re both gasping for breath. His hand slides down Sanbica’s body, hooking under his thigh. 

The second kiss is slower, sweeter, dragging an impatient whine from Sanbica when Sommar breaks it, his lips pressing against Sanbica’s neck. He smells like adrenaline and the late summer air, a few drops of sweat forming in the balmy evening heat. Sanbica’s hand scratches at the short hairs at the base of Sommar’s neck, nails catching the leather strap of Sommar’s eyepatch for a moment.

“Can I have my car back?”

Sommar laughs. “No.”

“What if I say please?”

“You have never said  _ please  _ sincerely in your life.”

A laugh bubbles out of Sanbica’s chest. He tips his head back, offering Sommar more of his throat, and the other man claims the exposed skin gladly. 

“I could do it for you,” Sanbica says.

“I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

Sanbica catches one of his hands, pulling a jar of lube from his pocket and pressing it into his palm.

“ _ Please _ ,” he says, and Sommar needs nothing more. 

He pulls down Sanbica’s jeans, tugging them down off his ankles and dropping them on the hard concrete below. Sanbica lays half on his back below Sommar, tank top pushed partway up his chest. His eyes are bright as neon, glittering under the low lights of the garage, his dark hair ruffled where Sommar’s hands were on it. 

Sommar's chest is tight with heat, a shaky breath escaping him. Sometimes he forgets to remember Sanbica’s the viper in his home.

Right now, Sommar would take his venom without regret. 

“Well?”

He’s hesitated more than enough for now. Maybe enough for a lifetime. 

Sommar presses a slick finger into Sanbica, drinking in his breathy gasp, his other hand on Sanbica’s chest to feel his heart pound. It’s fast, shuddering beats in time with his own. 

Sanbica hooks his legs around Sommar’s waist when he’s had enough, nails digging into Sommar’s shoulders impatiently. Sommar pulls him closer, pushing into him hard, and Sanbica reacts for him perfectly, soft moans and ragged breaths as Sommar sets a steady rhythm. His head falls back to the car hood with a soft thump, cheek pressed against the warm metal. 

“ _ Sommar _ ,” Sanbica gasps, and the artless, desperate sound of his voice has Sommar coming with a choked cry. His hands tighten around Sanbica’s hips, tight enough that there will be bruises tomorrow morning. 

They stay like that for a minute, until Sanbica grumbles and pushes at Sommar. 

“Off. It’s hot,” he says, pulling up a fold of his shirt to mop ineffectually at his sweat-slicked skin.

Sommar laughs, pulling Sanbica back up into a sitting position so he can kiss him again, heedless of Sanbica’s fussy noise. 

“Race me again. You can have your car back,” he says, “if you win.”

Sanbica hums, tracing the edge of a fingernail along the stubble of Sommar’s jaw. “And if I lose?”

“I'll think of something.”

“You,” Sanbica says, hooking the same finger in Sommar’s necklace to pull him in, “are on.”


	2. burning rubber

The next turn is the last one; a hairpin bend just before the finish line. Taking it too fast means going over the bluff. At this speed, the metal railing will be next to useless to stop him from hitting the ocean. 

Taking it too slow means losing. He can see the light of Sanbica's headbeams, the roar of his engine at his shoulder. Sanbica won't back down. He never does.

Sommar takes the turn fifteen miles an hour too fast, rounding the corner onto the last straightaway before the finish line. Sanbica's car is better at drifting, but Sommar's can't be matched for speed. The crowd ahead is drowned out by the growl of the engine when he guns it, his heart slamming in his chest. 

1800 meters. 750. 100. 

A whoop bursts from him as he hits the finish line first, Sanbica barely half a car-length behind. The crowd surges around their cars when they stop, close enough to watch, but not touch. Sommar climbs out of his car, hearing the door of Sanbica's shut. Even when he loses, Sanbica's not the type to slam doors in frustration. Still, the curve of his mouth is bitter when he meets Sommar's eyes, and he refuses to cross the distance between them first, only taking the last few steps between the cars when Sommar comes to him. 

His black hair catches the neon lights and reflects them in muted colors, and even in the harsh floodlights he's beautiful, sharp angles and narrowed eyes. 

Sommar's heart is still on the streets, beating two hundred miles an hour, and he can't resist a grin. 

"There's still time to back down."

"Shut up," Sanbica says, stopping almost chest-to-chest with him. "Do you want it or not?"

Oh, he wants it. A few whistles come from onlookers as he pulls Sanbica flush against him, hips bumping into each other. His fingertips dip lower, onto the curve of his ass, and Sanbica's nails dig into his wrist, half-moon crescents just shy of bleeding until he moves them back up.

"Well, you can't blame me for trying."

"I can blame you," Sanbica says, "for a lot of things."

"I'll take credit for all of them," Sommar says, and he takes Sanbica's chin between thumb and forefinger, tipping his face up to kiss him. 

No one else is close enough to catch Sanbica's tiny, sharp inhale, the way that his lips part in anticipation. Sommar’s mouth meets his, gentler than the breeze coming off the waves. Sanbica’s hands loosen, his mouth deliciously, willingly pliant -

The crowd boos and groans in disappointment as Sommar steps back, reveling in Sanbica’s split-second dazed confusion before he scowls. 

“Not here,” he says, and Sanbica draws himself up to his full height, fists clenched. 

“Cheat,” he spits. “You don’t get two.”

“Don’t follow me, then,” Sommar says, striding back to his car. He starts the engine without looking over his shoulder. As far as he’s concerned, the debt has been paid. Of course, how Sanbica feels about it is a different matter. 

There’s one long beat of hesitation, but he catches the sound of the 350z’s engine firing up beside him. He smiles, privately, and the crowd parts to let them though, away from the heart of the beachside port. 

The cliff roads aren’t any less dangerous at this speed, although to be fair, Sommar isn’t trying that hard to slow down. Every once in a while, he catches a glimpse of headlights in the rearview mirror, Sanbica keeping pace easily. They wind their way up to an overlook, the ocean a black, featureless blanket. Even from up here, he can hear the waves crashing on the rocks, although they’re almost impossible to see, the moon a tiny sliver of a crescent tonight. 

Sommar leans on the salt-rusted railing, listening to the crunch of gravel as Sanbica comes to stand behind him. Lao has given him a lot of practice in the “feeling disapproval without having to look at it” department, and he can tell Sanbica’s doing the same thing, arms crossed and scowling. 

“Asshole,” he says, and Sommar laughs. 

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

It wouldn’t bother him at this point anyway, but there’s something about the way that Sanbica snaps at him that’s endearing. If Sanbica meant it, Sommar has a feeling he’d know. 

He watches the straggling moonlight reflect off the wave breaks for a while, until Sanbica breaks the silence. 

“How did you know?”

“What, about you?”

Sanbica stands next to him, both hands gripping the railing. Not looking at him. “Yeah.”   
  
“Straight men look at the eyepatch first. Then my face, then the rest of me.  _ You  _ started lower,” Sommar says, pointing at his chest before flicking up.

Sanbica snorts. “And you gambled on me saying yes based on that?”

“Racing is gambling. Tell me you haven’t put your faith in less.”

All of them have put their faith in less. Sanbica doesn’t have anything to add to that, but Sommar can see him wrestling with a different question. He waits, his eye on the water while Sanbica finds it in him to ask.

“Why?”

“I don’t make a habit of kissing people who don’t want it.”

“Because you can make me do something I don’t want to do.”

Sommar raises his hands. “You got me.” 

And then, cheekily, “But that means you  _ do  _ want it.”

Sanbica huffs, but doesn’t look away, cheeks reddening. “Dick. You already got me to admit it, what else do you want?”

Sommar reaches out, knuckles brushing Sanbica’s cheek before he tucks his hair behind his ear. “Take two?”

This time, when Sanbica leans in, Sommar kisses him for real.

_ Racing is gambling,  _ he’d said. They were attractive for the same reason; for the thrill of throwing yourself headfirst into something with just enough out of your control that the outcome was uncertain. 

Kissing Sanbica was the same. Better. His hand cups the back of Sanbica’s neck, as much to keep himself grounded as it was to pull him close. Sanbica, like in everything, refuses to be led. His hand fists in the front of Sommar’s shirt, and this time it’s him who pulls them together, his back to the railing and the black expanse of sea to the horizon. 

He kisses Sanbica until he has to pull back for a shuddering breath. Sanbica’s warm in his arms, hot as flame compared to the frigid night air. 

And just as dangerous.

_ What is he doing? _

Sommar lets him go abruptly, taking a long step back. Sanbica can’t cover his confusion this time, thrown abruptly out of gear. His eyes are wide, unassuming, lips still slightly parted. He looks like any other young man of twenty-three, and not like the man in the dossier Lao gave him.

Special Agent Sanbica Nagai. 

For a moment, he’d forgotten. And for another, terrifying second, he hadn’t  _ cared _ . 

“We should,” he says, and hears himself more than he feels himself say it, “get back to the garage.”


End file.
